Hold On
by 0'EmeraldEyes'0
Summary: But I can't stop the flow of tears. And I can see the others out of the corner of my eye. They're thinking they've never seen Spot Conlon cry. And it scares them. Well, it scares me too.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the newsies.

**_Author's Notes:_** _This is a little different from anything I've written so far. For one thing, it's in first person. But I was in a depressing mood this evening, and so felt that I had to write something depressing to go along with it. I'm actually rather proud of this piece. It's just a oneshot, so tell me what you think please. _

_You never fell to your knees,_

_Your searching is over._

_Hold onto the light that guides you,_

_Hold onto the air that cools you,_

_Hold on,_

_Hold on,_

_Hold onto me._

_**-"Hold On" by Starting Line**_

I'd felt his pain from across the room. Every move he'd made that night had betrayed an internal ache that I simply hadn't been able to place.

I wish I'd had the nerve to say something to him.

Anything.

Maybe then, he wouldn't have jumped.

I'll never forget that night. The way he just sat, unspeaking, never letting his eyes leave the floor. He was doing some serious thinking; we all knew it. And as it was rare that we ever saw Race doing thinking of any sort, we left him alone. He sat away from us, in a corner chair. I saw the smoke from his cigarette leave his lips in slow motion, snaking towards the ceiling and dissolving before I'd even realized what I was watching. I would later compare the smoke to Racetrack's own life. So light and free while it lasted – only to disappear before my eyes, while I stood by, unsure of what I was seeing.

What I think I remember most, however, was how unafraid he was. How his hands didn't shake; how he wasn't pale; how not a single sign of fear or doubt escaped him that entire night. How could I possibly have known that Race would not live to see another hazy New York sunrise? Had _he_ even known, until he was actually letting go of the cold steel of the bridge and falling through chilled air?

Racetrack had always been the one to make you laugh. He built a wall around himself with that mouth of his. It was damn near impossible to get him to trust you, but once this happened, you had a friend for life. He wasn't the most predictable or responsible of guys, but he was loyal to the end. I remember once, David got into a bit of trouble with a local gang. Now, Race had never been all too fond of David: he thought David was whiney and annoying, to be frank. But Jack was in love with David (this was just a few weeks after the two had come out with their relationship and we'd laughed and told them we'd known all along), and Race was Jack's friend. No questions asked, Race had joined Jack to take on the gang in David's defense while most of us had stayed back in fear. Race had returned to the Lodging House with Jack, bloodied worse than we'd ever seen him, near death. But he never brought the incident up again, never asked Jack for any favor in return, never even implied that it wasn't worth it or that he wouldn't do it again in a heartbeat. Because he would. He would have laid down his life for any of us in a second. That's what friends do, and no one has ever been a better friend than Racetrack Higgins.

Even now, sitting at the makeshift funeral service Jack has put together, I can't grasp the reality ofthe loss. How had he just walked out of our lives, as easily as he'd walked out of the door that night? How could he leave us to go on, knowing that after a night's restless sleep, we would awake to a world devoid of that grinning Italian we'd all loved so dearly?

Maybe he'd been ready to go. Is it possible that people just _know_ when it's their time? He'd been so sure of himself. He said good bye to us all, telling us he was going for a walk to clear his head. No tears, nothing sentimental at all. He just didn't come home again next morning.

I'd heard Race had had a hard life. I'd heard rumors through Jack and the boys that his father used to hit him, that his sister died of tuberculosis as a child, that his mother had been a prostitute and used to bring home dirty men. I'd heard all kinds of stories. But I never knew which were true, or exactly _how_ true they were. It didn't matter – he always smiled for _us_. Never once did he burden us with his problems. Never was he weak in front of those he loved. He suffered in silence, and then, in silence, he decided to end it.

He was through searching, he was through looking and never finding, he was through waking up to the same old thing day in and day out. He was through hurting.

Life for us newsies is hurting.

For Race, I suppose it was just too much to handle. He got that look in his eye that night, and not one of us stood a chance of stopping him, even if we'd known what he was thinking. I wish it hadn't been so. I wish someone would have taken the time to realize what was going on. I know I would have made the effort had I known. But then, I suppose every boy sitting here now is thinking the same. Couldn't he have just held on? Couldn't he have found a saving grace? I know I sound selfish. I don't care. I need Race in my life. He was a good person, a good friend, and we all needed him.

He was stronger than I could ever hope to be. Should our places have been reversed, he would not be sitting here, crying like a baby as I am. But I can't stop the flow of tears. And I can see the others out of the corner of my eye. They're thinking "I've never seen Spot cry." And it scares them. Well, it scares me too. I haven't figured out yet if I'll be able to go on missing him this way. He meant something to me. Why couldn't he have found something to hold on to?

He could even have held onto me. I would have held him back.


End file.
